I have to sit down to take the news.
“You released my information?”
“I warned you, Dan.”
The world swirls.
Holy shit.
My life is over.
I think of the chats with Anne, the e-mails with BusinessWeek, and I can nearly see the people of FlowBid reading it all, gathering in each other’s cubes, giggling, giant scandalized smiles on their faces.
“You asshole,” I yell. “You fucking asshole.”
Shit, where’s Kate? I need to reach Kate before it gets to her.
He says, “I gave you an hour, Dan.”
I want to rip his lungs out. “I was working on it, you . . .” I swallow hard. “. . . little bastard.”
“Good, so there is hope.”
I sit there along the side of Larry’s house, stare at this brown little trap door connected to the garage, but it’s not registering.
“Hope,” I yell. “There’s no fucking hope. Not now.”
“You said you were working on retrieving my associate, so there is hope.”
“No, this is your problem now. You ruined my life, asshole. I’m done. I have to get to Kate.”
Long pause. “Dan, I don’t think you comprehend what’s happened.”
I stare at the trap door, feel like getting up and kicking it in out of anger, but realize it’s metal and would probably break my toes. “You just released all that personal information, you said. My life is ruined. Which means it will now be my mission in life to tear yours to fucking shreds.”
He laughs, like an elf on helium. “You don’t understand.” He composes himself, adds, “Yes, I released your personal info to the employees of FlowBid.”
My head goes cold. I’m gonna throw up.
“But I did not release all of it.”
What?
“I just released your porn activity to the top floor of the headquarters building. Nothing else.”
My vision narrows, and I feel faint as the particulars of my situation reassemble to present what might be a new future—one not nearly as awful as the one I just had, but disastrous on its own level.
“All employees on the top floor of the headquarters building, including those inhabiting Executive Row, have just received an e-mail from an IT mailbox labeled ‘Browsing Activity Reports/Browsing History of Daniel Jordan, Employee Number 452.’ ”
I think of the people on the top floor. People I know. People I work with daily. Everyone in Legal. All those young ladies in Finance. Fitzroy’s assistant, Sharon. Beth Gavin. Fitzroy himself.
“In said e-mail is a listing of what is termed ‘Questionable Browsing Activity.’ ”
Cold sweat. Spreading rapidly. “Lovely.”
“If you say so.”
What is that, geek humor?
“And that questionable browsing history includes, well . . .” I can hear the joy in his voice. “Well, let’s just say it’s apparent you enjoy a certain part of the female anatomy.”
Oh yeah. He’s outed me. The whole building will know what kind of man I am.
An ass man.
Just little breaks from the day, they were. Ladies in bikinis and thongs and all that. Half the time I sent them to Oscar for jobs well-done. And he’d send some back for me. Now, what a nightmare.
My stomach tightens. “You’re such a dick,” I mumble, running a hand through my hair.
“I can read the list, Dan, but I think you know these sites. The number one destination, a sweet little site called Assathon dot-com. Another one called—”
“Stop,” I yell, compose myself, and mumble, “God, you’re such a prick.”
Another call comes in. I look at the display—it’s Sharon from Fitzroy’s office. I click Ignore.
He says, so calm, “I could have truly destroyed your life, Dan. But I chose not to. . . . Not yet.”
I close my eyes, shake my head.
“I could have effectively eliminated your options by releasing other information. I could have ruined your marriage, too. And I will, if I have to. If you don’t do as I say, and that starts with retrieving my friend.” He waits a second. “And then proceeding to Tampa to execute our plans . . . to a T.”
I stand up, take a breath. “My Humps” beats from Calhoun’s place. I’m thinking, I still have a chance to salvage this.
My cell beeps again. Look at the display; it’s an unknown FlowBid number. Press Ignore again.
“Let me get your little buddy out.”
“So just to be clear, Dan: You will call me within the hour and put my associate on the phone, or I will release more of your personal data to the entire FlowBid building.” He pauses for effect. “And let’s just say it will make this first installment seem as interesting as an NPR discussion on rice subsidies.”
“Okay.”
“And no police.”
“Okay.”
I think of the IMs with Anne, feel a wave of nausea. “Okay,” I say, and hang up.
Gotta get that geek out of Larry’s garage.
I stumble to the front of Larry’s house, thinking of what Calhoun said—I hold power over Larry, by virtue of my little lover.
And finally I get it.
My cell rings. Another FlowBid number. Ignore.
I’m so screwed. The whole building is reading my porn history.
Cell rings again. FlowBid. Ignore.
I find Crazy Larry on his porch, still blowing clouds of smoke with his pipe.
Cell rings. FlowBid. Ignore.
“I meant to ask, Larry. Do you ever get to San Francisco?”
“The city?” He turns and looks at me, interested. “You mean, civilization.”
I nod. “Yeah, the city. Just up the freeway. Kate’s there now, in fact.”
He fingers his beard, studies me. “So close,” he mumbles, thinks about it, “and yet so far away.”
“Yeah, she’s in the city for a few days. I was thinking maybe you and I could meet her someplace for a drink.”
His eyes enlarge. “Kate?”
“Yes, Kate and you . . . and me. In the city. A drink or something. Someplace in Cow Hollow, maybe. There’s a nice place on Union. You know, a nice visit, just the three of us. In the city. A little date.”
“Date?” His lips quiver. “Date with Kate?”
“And me.”
His eyes tighten. “Just Kate.”
God, she’ll kill me.
“Well, maybe I could join you in the beginning.”
He studies me, turns his head like a curious cat.
“Then, I suppose I could leave you guys for an hour or so and go take care of some errands.”
And I’m thinking, Rod and I will never leave the bar.
He whispers to himself, “Kate,” and gazes into space.
“Yes, a date with Kate.”
Man, I gotta stop using that word.
He sounds like a poet, his voice so delicate. “I’d like that very much.”
I’ll be paying for this for years. Decades.
“Only one condition.”
His eyes tighten.
I nod to the garage. “You need to release him.”
Crazy Larry glances at the garage, looks back at me.
“Date with Kate?”
I nod.
“In the city?”
Nod again.
He looks into space and strokes his whiskers.
Cell rings. Oscar. Ignore.
“What do you say, Larry? . . . Deal?”
Larry stands up, rearranges his Speedo, smoothes out his tank top. He turns and leaves me standing there, saunters into his house, disappears.
“Larry?”
Silence.
Buzz-snap.
Cell again. FlowBid’s head of HR. Crap. Ignore.
“Larry?”
Finally, he appears in his doorway holding what looks like the remote control for a garage-door opener.
“Date with Kate. Tonight.”
“Well, you know, a visit. Call it what you want.”
He smiles to himself. “I prefer to call it a date.”
Larry brings the pipe to his mouth, produces a cloud of smoke, stares at me through the swirls. Clicks the device, triggering from inside the garage a series of rapid mechanical clicks. Metal contraptions collapsing to the ground. Hydraulic hissing. An intense series of pops and snaps, followed by the longest buzz yet.
From the side of the garage, the sound of the trap door blowing open, and a second later a high-pitched yelp.
And then a streak of flesh: Little Red, naked, shaven bald, and greased up. Darting down the street, yelping.
Crazy Larry says, “I don’t like red hair.”
My cell rings.
I start to hobble after Little Red.
“And tell your child . . .”
That gets me. I stop, turn to him again.
“. . . that tracking devices interfere with my cerebral frequency.”
“Okay, Larry. Believe me, it won’t happen again.”
Big puff. “He’s lucky that sweet little mom of his put him up to it.”
“Okay, Larry. We appreciate your tolerance.”
And he fades into the smoke.
I find Little Red around the corner, hiding behind a cluster of junipers.
I pull him out and drag him back to my place, aware the whole time of the scene I’m making. Cars slowing. Kids stopping on their bikes, watching from a distance, as this neighborhood daddy drags a hairless, greased-up, naked man down the street and into his house.
Someone must be calling the cops.
“It’s nothing,” I tell passersby. “He’s just a little confused. Just scared.”
Let them think Little Red is a psycho. Hell, he probably is.
In the house, he grunts and growls. His whole body shakes, and his teeth won’t stop chattering. Not a word out of him. Just glares—daggers, aimed right at me.
I wrap him up in a blanket, start the shower.
“You do realize I was the one who sprang you loose, right?”
He snarls at me.
I look at my cell. Thirty missed calls, all from FlowBid folks. I think of Assathon dot-com and God knows what else. Not a terminable offense, but what an embarrassment.
I shake my head. Can’t think about that right now.
I find High Rider’s number, call him.
“Do you have good news, Dan?”
“Here.” I put the phone to Little Red’s ear. “Say something. Tell him where you are.”
He grunts.
I can hear High Rider say something.
Little Red growls, “Yes.”
Something else from High Rider. Another yes from Little Red.
I take the phone away. “So we’re back on?”
“I was minutes away from distributing your instant messaging, Dan.”
I know Little Red was never quite right, but now he’s even worse. He can’t stop twitching and blinking. Every time I try to inspect the marks and bruises on his body—the razor cuts on his shaven head, the welts on his legs, the hundreds of pinch marks over his chest and back, the Vaseline smears everywhere—he swipes at my hands like an angry kitten. Practically hisses.
He keeps twitching.
Damn, this isn’t right.
“What did he do to you?”
Just that snarl, then a twitch.
“Do you need to see a doctor? Urgent care, maybe?”
He bristles and twitches.
Steam eases out of the bathroom.
“Your buddy is coming with new clothes. Why don’t you take a shower?”
He whimpers, turns and heads for the shower.
My cell rings again. It’s Oscar, and this time I pick up.
“Dude,” he says.
“I know. Someone already told me.”
With emphasis. “Dude.”
“I heard it only went to the top floor.”
“Three different people forwarded it to me, dude, and not one of them is on the third floor. It’s everywhere.”
I’d figured as much, but hearing it from Oscar makes it real. Nausea washes over me, and I close my eyes.
Oscar says, “I’m freaking, dude.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“No,” he says. “About me. I’m freaking about me.”
“No, you’re fine. There’s no risk.”
“But Assathon dot-com? I sent you a ton of pics from Assathon dot-com.” He moans, worried. “Maybe I’m next.”
I close my eyes tight. Fuck, my head hurts.
“No, I don’t think it’s like that. This was just about me.”
He sighs, relieved. Then, with a trace of amusement: “Dude, you’ve been busy.”
“What does it say?”
Extra slow. “There’s a list here, dude. Sites you’ve visited.”
“Like what?”
“Beach Butts dot-com . . .” He giggles, stops himself. “Camel Toes dot-com.”
“Camel Toes?” I yell. “You sent me that one.”
“Says you spent twenty-seven minutes there. So you can’t really blame me.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
“There’s one here I’ve never heard of. . . . Rate My Ass dot-com.” He pauses. “Five hours.”
“Nice.” I take a Modelo from the fridge, take a huge swig. “I’ll never enter that building again.”
Another big sigh. “Dude, I have to tell you. This looks bad. Two more people just forwarded this list to me. It’s all over the place.”
“Oscar,” I say, closing my eyes tight, “I need to get off the line. I can’t handle this anymore.”
“Okay, dude. I’m gonna respond to these. I’ll say you told me it’s someone’s idea of a bad joke. That it’s all bullshit, not true.”
I take another huge swig. “Thanks, man.” I feel my body sway. My mind is floating away, it seems, and maybe that’s not such a bad idea. “I gotta go.”
We hang up, and my cell rings again. My head wobbles as I look at it. Another FlowBid number.
Fuck it. Pick it up, Danny. Tell them it’s all a lie, some prick’s idea of a practical joke.
“Yo?” I say.
“Dan?”
“Yo?”
“Dan, this is Janice from Finance.”
“Yo?” I press my butt against the fridge, let go, allow gravity to slide me down to the floor. Hard landing. “Yo, Janice.”
That stops her only a second. “You don’t have time for P6s in the FOD, but you have time for three hours at Golden Buns dot—”
“Listen for a sec, Janice.” I let the words slur a little. “That’s all bullshit. That’s all a lie.”
“It looks pretty authentic to me, Dan.”
“Well, it isn’t,” I snap. “And regardless, I’m never gonna do your goddamn P6s in the FOD.”
She huffs. “Something’s not right.”
“Oh, really? You finally figured that out, Janice? Good for you. In fact, why don’t you enter that into your FOD?”
I hang up as I lower my head to the kitchen floor.
More freaky dreams.
Crazy Larry escorting Kate down a busy San Francisco street in his Speedo. High Rider carrying Little Red in his arms like a sleeping toddler, leaving the house. Calhoun cradling me again, only this time he’s topless and trying to make me “latch” on to one of his tits, his nipple long like a pinkie, and I’m like a newborn, fussing and resisting.
That wakes me.
My cheek is wet from the drool.
My cell is ringing. Damn . . . Modelo and Vicodin. Whoa.
I pick up the cell. “Yo,” I slur. “It’s all bull. All a bunch of bullshit.”
“Dan?” It’s Kate. “Dan, where are you?”
Head bobbling. “Kitchen floor.”
“Dan, are you okay?”
“Now? Now, I’m just fine.”
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” I yell, almost lazy. “Nothing. I’m fine. Just had a beer, okay? I’m just on the kitchen floor, if that’s okay with your sweet little face.”
“Dan, I’ve been thinking.” She pauses. “There’s more, isn’t there?”
“What?”
“There’s more you’re not telling me.”
“Stop it,” I slur.
“I knew it. I mean, with all our problems, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Honey, enough.”
After a long pause, she says, “You shouldn’t be there.”
“I’m fine,” I slur, arching an eyebrow. “Fiiiiinnne. Fine.”
She’s annoyed. “I can’t believe you’re drunk.”
“I’m not,” I say, slow about it. “Just a Sierra, then a Modelo.”
“Make yourself a coffee, take a shower, pack your things for the trip tomorrow, and when your head’s clear, get up here to Rod’s.”
“Fine,” I say.
“Dan,” she says, softer. “Just keep it together a few more days, okay?”
Staring at the cabinets, glazing over. “Yeah.”
“I found an employment lawyer,” she says. “He was very helpful.”
This clears my head a little. “Yeah?”
“That BusinessWeek stuff gets out, you’re toast. The options are toast.”
The news bounces off my face. “Okay.”
“So we just have to hang tough a little longer, okay?”
Staring at the cabinets.
“Dan, just have that coffee and get up here, and we’ll get you ready. Okay?”
“Honey?”
“Yeah?”
“Honey, you have a date tonight.”
She laughs. “Oh yeah?”
“I’m serious. I’m bringing Larry. He has a date with you.”
Silence.
“You see . . .” I pause, arch an eyebrow, as I recall my predicament. “You see, honey, Crazy Larry? He wouldn’t let Little Red out of his garage. So I needed to ne-go-tiate with him.”
Long silence.
“Otherwise, High Rider would’ve released my info, all my info, and that would’ve been it for us.”
Nothing.
“But the deal is, he can’t be alone with you, and it’s just an hour . . .” I fail to suppress a burp. “. . . or something.”
Nothing.
“Sorry, honey.”
Silence.
“The good news is, I got Little Red back.” I pull my head away from the cell, realize the shower is silent. “I think High Rider came and got him, carried him out like a baby,” I say. “Only I thought it was a dream.”
Nothing.
“You there, honey?”
The cold shower clears my mind a little. The coffee steaming in my face helps, too. But the beer and painkillers still have me floating. It feels like I’m gliding through it all, like I can do anything I want.
Like call my mom.
For the first time in years.
I stumble down the garage steps, cordless in my hand, as I thumb her number—same number for twenty-five years.
Shit, I’m doing it.
Ringing.
I glide to the shelving, glance over my sander and power drill . . .
Heart pounding.
. . . past my dad’s shelf of old Yuban cans filled with nails and screws . . .
Swallow hard.
. . . and settle in front of the family Coleman. Dark green metal with white plastic trim, a chrome latch. Forty years old, easy.
Ringing.
All those family vacations at the beach. Pajaro Dunes. Every summer. Sweet and gentle times, in a simpler world. Feels so long ago, I wonder if it ever even happened. Or was it a fantasy? But here’s the proof—the Coleman. Spent all those days sunken crookedly in the sand, full of Welch’s Grape Soda and Coors and pretzels and oranges and PBJs.
So long ago. And yet here it is.
“Hello?”
Bet I could find sand under the plastic trim.
She clears her throat. “Kate?”
“Mom?”
“Danny?”
It’s been two years.
A lump forms in my throat. “Mom, I miss you.”
She starts to cry, and I let her.
“I love you, Danny.”
“I know I haven’t called.”
“Oh, Danny.” She sobs, fights to control herself. “It is so nice to hear your voice.”
And to hear hers brings back a thousand memories, all of them washing over me in a warm rush, all at once. I start to cry.
“Kate calls me,” she sniffles. “And Rod. They tell me you’re okay, but I worry.”
I wipe a tear. “I’m sorry, Mom.”
She cries, “I’m sorry, too.”
After a while, I say, “How did it get this bad?”
“We say too much, you and me. We say way too much.”
I know she’s right. My mom and I, we’ve always said too much, hurt each other too deeply. And it’s always about the heaviest stuff, too—who did who wrong all those years ago, who didn’t do enough during my dad’s last days, when he was withering away from cancer. And the words, they crush.
The truth is, we both cared so much.
“Are you okay?” she says. “Why are you at home in the middle of a workday?”
I’m staring at it, swaying just a little. “You remember all those times at Pajaro?”
“Of course,” she sniffles, her voice weakening. “Those were the best days of my life.” And they were. The three of us, together and happy. With the Yakamotos, the Piersons, Tommy and Betty Sims. I reach out and touch the cooler, just glance it with the back of my index finger. “You ever go back there?”
“No.” She sighs, her voice so soft. “No, I can’t. It would just—”
“Mom, we’re going to move there, or somewhere nearby. As long as I can hang on a few more days.”
“A few more— You’re moving?”
“And I want you to come visit us. And we’ll go to the beach, and we’ll pack some stuff in the cooler, spend all day on the beach, play with the boys. Like old times, okay?”
She clears her throat, sighs. “Are you okay, honey?”
“Promise you’ll come.”
“Of course, I’ll come. But you don’t sound—”
“Mom, I just wanted to let you know I love you.”
“Danny—”
“And that we need to start making new memories, and just let go of that other crap.”
I can hear my doorbell ring. I know who it is.
“Danny, tell me what’s—”
“Mom, Crazy Larry’s at the door. I need to take him to the city for his date with Kate.”
Damn, that—
“Danny, are you okay to drive?”
If only I could worry about that.
Larry actually looks pretty decent. Light brown hair washed and blown. Nice pair of black slacks, solid-blue collar shirt opened to reveal puka shells against honey skin. Black leather shoes, unscuffed.
“Whoa. Larry.”
His eyes are serious. “I’ll drive.”
In a car? With Larry?
I scratch my head, look away. “You know, actually . . . We should take our own cars, because I’m gonna stay up there tonight and then head straight to the airport tomorrow.”
Larry blinks hard. “Your car. I’ll drive.”
“Yeah, but you need to get home tonight.” Translation: There’s no chance in hell you’re staying with us.
He turns and walks away. “I’ll be waiting in the car.”
“Okay, Larry.”
“I’ll drive.”
“Well, we’ll see, Larry, we’ll see.” I pause. “I mean, maybe I should drive.”
He stops and turns back, gazes at me, his eyes hardening. “I’ll drive.”
I try to maintain the eye-lock, try to let him know I can’t be bossed around. He stares back, his smile freezing. And I realize, number one, that I probably am too buzzed to drive. And, number two, that Larry can—and will—do this all day.
“Okay, Larry, you’ll drive.”
Five minutes later, I’m holding on for life.
“Slow down, Larry.”
We weave in and out of traffic on northbound 101.
“This is a necessity.” His voice is so soft. “It’s calming.”
He takes the Ralston Avenue exit, hits the brakes hard, considering the fact we’re going ninety-five.
“What are you doing? Why’re you getting off?” My voice hardens. “Pull to the side here, Larry, I’m driving.”
He drives us over the overpass, takes the southbound on-ramp, hits the accelerator. The engine reaches a high pitch.
He soothes, “I’m getting centered.”
My cell rings. Fuck. It’s Fitzroy. I pick up.
“Danny?”
“Hi, Stephen.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m just—”
“You making margaritas, Danny? I hear a blender.”
“Oh, that’s just my—”
“You okay, Danny?”
Larry jets around a Range Rover, sends me against the door.
“I’m fine, sir. I’m just—”
“I got this e-mail, Danny.”
“Oh, that’s—”
“I thought you told Beth you’re busy.” He sounds amused.
“Sir, that e-mail is a bunch of BS. I think IT is investigating who sent that out.”
Larry tails a Hummer, bangs on the horn.
“That you, Danny?”
“Yeah, that was just—”
“No need to turn to road rage, Danny.”
“No, I’m just—”
“Danny, I’ll see you on the jet tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Unless you need to take some time off, to get your personal life in order.”
“No, sir. I’ll be ready.”
“And Danny?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’re taking the new guy.”
“New guy?”
“Yeah, the rat eater.”
“Oh, the new guy. Okay.”
“He’s got a lot of ideas, Danny. Out-of-the-box thinker. He wants to join us, so I’ll have you guys dope out this pitch.”
The only thing I can think to say is “Sounds interesting.”
Larry takes the Holly Street exit, hits the brakes, launches me into the dashboard.
“And Danny?”
“Yes, Stephen?”
“You’re not alone.”
“Sir?”
“You’re not alone.”
I wait, unsure where he’s going.
He pauses for effect. “I’m one, too.”
“And what is that, sir?”
“An ass man, Danny. Just like you.”
The line goes dead.
Larry takes us over the overpass, gets on the northbound on-ramp.
“Larry, what is this?”
“This . . .” He hits the gas hard, bangs on the horn, and speeds onto the northbound lanes. “. . . is how I attend to my frequency.”
Oh yeah. He did this earlier today, when the geeks were tracking him. They’re like warm-up laps, only it’s more like wind sprints up and down the 101.
“I want to hit the right frequency,” he says, staring at the road. “For my date.”
I grip the side handle and slide down as he executes a dramatic lane dive. My stomach rises, and my crotch aches with each jerk.
“Larry,” I say, “I’m sorry, but it’s not a date.”
Larry’s silent until we reach the Ralston exit once again. “No . . .” We speed over the overpass, coast onto the southbound on-ramp for another lap. “No, it’s a date.”
This could be a while.
I look at my briefcase, then at the CD player on the dashboard, and figure, Might as well put on some Afro Cuban.
In all, we do eight laps until Larry finally slows to a tolerable speed and we coast past the Ralston exit. I loosen my grip and ease up, whispering, “There we go.”
The car beats with Africando’s “Yay Boy.”
Larry gazes at the road with this frozen look, the slightest of grins, an eyebrow arching.
“You centered now, Larry?”
Voice so soft. “Yes.”
I pull out my mobile. “I’ll tell Kate we’re on our way.”
He nods, pulls out his pipe from his shirt pocket, then a yellow lighter. He uses his knees to steer as he lights his bowl, gets a good smoke going. “Tell her I knew this day would come,” he says, and blows out a cloud.
Kate picks up on the second ring, but says nothing.
Oh yeah, she’s pissed.
“Honey?”
Silence.
“Honey, we’re about thirty minutes away. So why don’t we meet you at Betelnut?”
Silence.
“Kate?”
“Whatever,” she says, and hangs up.
Can’t blame her.
Larry slams on the brakes, and I crash into the dash. Cars sail by, horns blaring. I look over at him, and his eyes tighten as a BMW 325i sails past us and pumps the brakes. Larry executes a lane dive, falls behind the 325i, jerks me forward when he hits the brakes. The 325i slows some more, and so do we. It changes lanes, and so do we.
Larry’s not letting this guy go.
“Larry, road rage is really pretty dangerous.”
“This isn’t road rage.” The 325i accelerates, and Larry hits the gas, pulls the pipe out of his mouth. “This is a counteroffensive.”
I press against the dashboard as Larry makes the Toyota scream.
“Larry,” I growl.
Larry hands me his pipe. “Take that.” He pumps the stick shift, jerks me back.
“Hold on,” he says crisply, and floors the gas.
We rocket toward the Beemer.
“Stop.”
He squints at me through the smoke, turns back to the road. “I thought I made it very clear.”
The Beemer pulls a lane dive for the ages, nearly crashes into a pickup as it crosses the slow lane toward the Third Street exit.
“Holy shit, Larry.” I slide down my seat, brace for impact as we dive across three lanes. Horns blare and tires screech. “Slow the fuck down.”
We’re right up on the Beemer as we curl around the off-ramp, to Third Street. The driver glances back a second, and I recognize him immediately despite the bruises and cuts on his face.
Baldy.
Oh shit.
“I thought I made it very clear.” Larry cocks his head, like he’s been hit with a high pitch that’s hurting his ears. “I don’t like people following me.”
We chase Baldy across the overpass.
“No,” I yell. “This is different.”
Larry comes up on Baldy, pounds on the horn, bumps his back bumper. The contact makes the Beemer fishtail a little.
“Larry,” I yell. “Please.”
We follow Baldy toward downtown San Mateo, blaze through a set of red lights. A Land Rover coming right at us skids out of control, flips over, and slides untouched across the intersection.
“Holy shit. Stop it, Larry.”
“Different, you said?”
“Yes, yes. Please stop, Larry. You’re gonna kill us.”
“I need your context as it relates to ‘different.’ ”
The Beemer weaves through traffic. We follow.
“This is the guy who beat me up yesterday. He has nothing to do with the tracking device.”
Larry comes up to the Beemer, rams the back again.
“And what about our Kate?”
I feel dizzy. Holy shit, I’m gonna die.
“Kate?”
Larry grabs the pipe from my hand, takes a few puffs, hands it back to me, squints at the Beemer. “What does our Kate think of this individual?”
“Kate?” I yell. “Kate?”
“Yes,” he says, his voice calm and delicate. “Kate.”
I’m ready to blow. “What do you think she thinks? He scares the shit out of her. We think he’s with a corporate security firm or something.”
“Corporate?’
“Big money, Larry.”
“Big money,” he says, more to himself.
“Scary money, Larry.”
“And this frightens Kate?”
He hits the gas, changes lanes.
“Larry, watch it. This guy—”
“Daniel?”
“Larry, I think— What?”
We pull up to Baldy on my side. I slide down so only my eyes are showing.
“Daniel,” Larry says, his voice crackling, so in control. “I think I smell bacon.”
We’re speeding down Third Street, side by side with Baldy.
I look over, and Baldy is showing us his handgun, this black number.
God help me. I slide down some more.
Larry steers with his left hand, freeing his right to tug up a pant leg and pull out a buck knife. I let out a little yelp as he waves it around and puts it in his mouth, like a rose, and glances over at Baldy, grinning.
I swear, I’m gonna faint.
“Hol’ onsh.” Larry slurs through the blade and speeds up. We lane-dive in front of Baldy and slam on the brakes, forcing Baldy to spin out as he tries to avoid hitting us.
And fails.
The collision is hard, the Beemer slamming into my side of the car, behind me. The buck knife flies out of Larry’s mouth, onto the dashboard. My head bobbles around in a very unnatural way—so unnatural that everything goes silent. And dark.
From blackness I awake.
It’s so quiet now, so peaceful.
The car bounces hard, and the trunk slams shut.
My head throbs, my neck stings, and my crotch radiates hate.
I straighten up, look around.
What the—
“Twine.” Larry comes around to my side of the car, so calm. “We’ll need twine.”
Slowly, I mumble, “Wha— Larry, what’s . . .”
Larry leaves me. I moan as my head wobbles. It hurts to look, but I do, using the side-view mirror. In a second, Larry’s at the stranded Beemer, pulling at his buck knife, which is sunken into the driver-side door. A metal screech sears my senses as he pulls it loose.
Had no idea someone could throw a knife into a car.
Passing motorists slow down, but no one stops.
Where’s Baldy?
Larry reaches into the Beemer, pulls out Baldy’s handgun, and shoves it down his pants. Cool as ice.
Sirens in the distance. God. My car—totaled. My life—
Larry drops into the driver’s seat, slams the door shut, and we jerk forward, take an immediate right into a residential area.
“We need twine.”
“Larry, let’s stop and wait for the pol—”
“Oh yes,” he says, to himself. “Wisnom’s Hardware. On First.”
Major thump in the trunk.
“Larry, what’d you do?”
Larry stares at the road. “Twine,” he whispers. “Twine rope, twine. What else?” He hums to himself. “Well, we’ll see what they have.”
A big kick against my backseat. Another one, even harder.
“Larry, what’d you do to him?”
“Nothing.” Larry taps his fingers to the Africando, jerking his head to the beat. “The collision left him a little dazed, so I just popped your trunk and walked him over.”
We pull into the Wisnom’s parking lot.
“Larry . . .”
“Our Kate will need to wait a few more minutes.”
“Larry,” I slur. “We need to stop.”
“Don’t let him out.”
“Larry,” I snap.
He’s gone.
The next few minutes, the kicks get harder, louder. I ignore them as I try to think of what to do—rubbing my head, trying to ignore the sirens coming from various directions and clear my head, and I realize:
I can’t let him out. He could get me arrested. He could kill me.
Plus, this is probably the best chance I’ll ever have to make Baldy sing, tell us what he knows.
Lord, what have I become?
From the trunk, a muffled, pissed-off “Hey.”
I hear myself yelling, “If I have to pop that trunk, you’re getting the baseball bat.”
He quiets.
Larry returns with two bags of supplies, opens my door, drops them in my lap.
I poke through the bags. “What is all this stuff? Turpentine? What the hell do you need turpentine for?”
Larry steps behind the wheel, looks at me, gazes at the dashboard. “Let’s find a quiet spot.” The Toyota jerks backward. “Nice, quiet spot.”
“Twenty-gauge metal wire? Pliers? Wood clamps? Rags?” I poke some more, frown. “Lawn fertilizer and polyurethane?”
Larry whizzes us down the street, away from the sirens. “Quiet spot,” he whispers, turning us left onto a tree-lined street. “Quiet spot.”
“That guy back there is dangerous, you know? Think about this, Larry.” I pause, scratch my head. “I mean, maybe we just pop the trunk, let him hop out and we speed away.”
Larry scans the neighborhood.
“I’m serious, Larry. This is getting crazy.”
Larry pulls us to the curb under a low-hanging elm, behind an old camper. I scan the neighborhood of older homes. Not a soul.
Larry leans over, fingers through the bags, and pulls out the wire and turpentine. Then he pierces me with those eyes. “Would you like to know why this man is harassing you and your family?”
I look away and tilt my head. Yes, I would.
“Would you like a brief and controlled intermission from your recent insanity?” He pauses, studies my face with those eyes. “For Kate?”
Larry’s peering right into me, it seems. His eyes are beautiful, I must admit. “Do you like answers, Daniel?”
I hear myself whisper, “Yes.”
He steps out of the car, shuts the door, and leans back in through the open window. “Then follow me.”
And just like that, I place the bags on the floorboard and step out of the car.
In front of the trunk, Larry hands me the twine and turpentine and retrieves the buck knife from his shin holster. Without hesitation, he stabs the trunk door with all his might. A loud boom cracks the silence. Baldy yells out, muffled by the trunk.
“Larry,” I whisper. “Easy on my car here, okay?”
Larry pulls the knife out, resheathes it, grabs the can of turpentine from my clutch, twists off the cap, and pours a generous amount through the new hole.
The scent reminds me of my father, and I’m transported to my childhood. It’s the end of a Sunday, and we’re dipping paintbrushes into an old bucket. I’m just a kid, squatting there beside him, watching him run the brushes through the turpentine, the sharp odor hitting me hard, the day fading, the scent of browned hamburger coming from the kitchen.
It’s like a sock in the gut.
From the trunk, like a voice in a jar: “Hey.”
Larry’s eyes enlarge just a tad.
“Hey!”
I feel myself getting wobbly again.
Larry pours more in.
“Hey, what the fuck, dude?” A big kick from inside the trunk. “Hey.” A big cough, then some wheezing. “Let’s be reasonable here.”
I wobble forward, touch Larry’s forearm. “Larry,” I whisper, “what’s this going to do to him?”
Holy shit, I’m gonna faint. I put my hand on the trunk to hold myself up.
Larry looks at me, his eyes so alive. “Rashes. Shortness of breath.” He cocks his head, thinks about it, and allows the slightest of grins. “Eventually, a nap.”
Baldy rasps, “Dude. C’mon. Let’s talk.”
Larry raises an eyebrow, says into the air, “Oh, we’ll talk,” then turns and pours more turpentine through the hole.
Which is when I feel myself falling backward, into the sweet sticky realm of nothing.
Such a sweet memory.
A day in the city with Mom and Dad. Afternoon around the Embarcadero and along the piers, then a few shops up around Hyde Street, and then Mexican down in the Mission: chile rellenos and huevos rancheros and Spanish rice. And orange soda and chunky guacamole.
And then that sweet moment when I’m half awake in the backseat, stretched out for the ride home, bounced awake for just a second, just long enough to note the drool, the moist seat fabric on my cheek, the hum of the motor soothing me back to sleep, all so familiar and safe, the memory of the dinner jukebox playing “Soy Salsero” still in my head, the beat relentless, the timbales and trumpets dancing so happily as I sink back into sweetness . . . a distinct blend of cocoa-butter body lotion and vanilla-scented pipe smoke washing over me.
The music ends, and a new song starts up. Bongos and trumpets and piano and more timbales, someone singing, “Alabanciosa.”
Blink my eyes open.
Crap.
I sit up.
Splitting headache.
The beat picks up.
Larry’s at the wheel jerking his head from side to side, tapping the steering wheel as we speed north up 101. Outside, south San Francisco is a blur.
Larry eyes me through the rearview mirror, blows out a puff. “I’ll need directions,” he says. No emotions—like he’s a bank teller.
I frown and rub my forehead. “What?”
“Our Kate,” he says. “Our Kate. I’ll need directions to our Kate.”
Pain is everywhere—at the back of my head, in front of my head, in the depths of my eye sockets. Most of all, in my crotch and spreading to my legs and abdomen and curling around to spiderweb up my back. I try to stretch, but it hurts too much. I close my eyes and wish I were dreaming again.
I lean back and squint, trying to keep the light out. “Just take 101 all the way to the end, take a left on Fell Street, take an immediate right on Laguna, and you’re good.”
The beat intensifies.
Larry leans forward and slaps the top of the dashboard with an open palm, humming to the rapid-fire Spanish.
“Larry, where’s the bald guy?”
Still slapping the dash. “You know where he is.”
“Larry,” I say. “We need to have a plan. I mean, we need to release Baldy. I’m not doing kidnap—”
A black wallet hits me in the face. “It’s Anthony,” Larry says. “And he’s mine, until I get some answers for our Kate.”
I stare at the wallet on my lap. With a thumb, I flip it open, glance at it, and look away.
“Larry, we can’t do this.”
“We?” Larry chuckles. “No . . . I’m doing this.”
“Well, I can’t let you do this. We have to give him back.”
Big cloud of smoke. “Why was this gentleman following me?”
I sigh, look away. “I don’t know, Larry.”
“Precisely.” He sounds like he’s just put the finishing brushstroke on a masterpiece. “Which is why I am going to do some extraction.”
“Extraction?”
Larry nods.
“But this has nothing to do with you.”
“You said the same thing about the little man who followed me this morning.”
I plead. “That was a whole other thing, Larry.”
“No . . .” Larry pauses. “No, this is all one big thing.”
We cruise in silence awhile, the wallet untouched on my lap, until Larry pulls a right onto Laguna. “You will have to let him go, Larry.” I bite my lip, thinking about it, and pick up the wallet, weigh it in my hand. “Eventually.”
Larry scans the area. We’re driving through Hayes Valley, an interesting cross-section of junkies, hipster merchants, and yuppies in industrial urban wear. “Ah, yes,” he sighs, almost a whisper. “Civilization.”
“Larry,” I yell. “Larry?”
“What?” he snaps.
“You will have to let him go. You hear me?”
Larry is annoyed, says, “Of course.”
“And I’m not going to lie to the cops.”
“The last thing that individual in there will ever do is contact the police.”
Damn, the crazy fuck has a point. Still, not on my watch.
“Larry,” I beg, my voice cracking, “don’t hurt him. It’ll just make things worse.”
The smoke swirls from the front of the car.
“Are you gonna put him in your garage, Larry?”
Long pause. “Daniel?”
“Yes, Larry?”
“Daniel, I’m about to become agitated.”
“No one wants that, Larry. Seriously.”
“Daniel, why was this man following me?”
We cross Geary, into Japan Town.
“I don’t know, Larry. That’s just the thing. I just don’t know.”
“Well . . .” Larry’s voice is rising. “Tell me what you do know about this individual.”
Don’t cry. Hold it together. I take a big breath, let it out slowly. “Only thing I know is, he’s connected to big money.”
“Big money?”
“Really big money.”
“Daniel,” he says, so soft I can barely hear him.
“Larry?”
Real long pause.
“. . . I do not like big money.”
We park the Toyota on Union, right in front of everyone—all the young professionals walking home from work, the fashionista shoppers strolling past, the locals walking their dogs. A woman about my mom’s age walks past us with a St. Bernard, a giant drool towel hanging under its collar.
Larry gets out, stretches, smiles to himself as he looks around. “Cow Hollow,” he says, motioning to the pedestrians, the boutiques, the restaurants. “I’ve always admired Cow Hollow, although I see . . .” Larry watches a yuppie brush past us as he barks into a mobile phone. “. . . it has changed.”
He’s right.
Gentrification.
Like a lot of the more affluent neighborhoods in the city, Cow Hollow seems to have been overrun by young, college-educated fortune seekers from the East—a critical mass of them just a little too smug, a little too status-conscious, a little too sure of their place in the world at such young ages.
I work with some of these folks at FlowBid. One of them loves to refer to San Francisco as “my city.” It’s not her city.
For it to be her city, she’d have to recognize Cecil Williams in a crowd. She’d have to be able to identify a Santana ballad within the first two chords. She’d have to be interested in her nontech neighbors—the teachers and city workers and artists and merchants. She’d have to know where the city of Fremont is. She’d have to ride Muni.
This isn’t her city.
During the holidays, Kate and I like to come to Cow Hollow because all these folks are back home with their parents in New Haven and Boston and Albany, which makes the parking a dream and the remaining population a complete delight.
Betelnut is one of our favorite places—great Asian fusion, great vibe—and now I’m wondering why we agreed to meet here. Not the right kind of energy for Larry, I’m thinking, as I watch him circle the sidewalk in front of the restaurant.
I lean against the wall. When Larry passes, I say, “Not a word from the trunk. Not even a kick.”
Larry slows, looks down, and says, “I used the twine. I used all of the twine.”
God, my head aches.
“Yeah, but not even a moan or anything.”
Larry looks into the air, says, “It’s amazing how one has so much less to say when one has a sock in one’s mouth.”
My heart races. “Larry,” I whisper-yell. “He could be dead.”
A passerby in a blue blazer glances at me and keeps walking.
“He’s napping,” Larry says, the irritation high. “I know what I’m doing.”
I hobble to the car, pull out my keys, and unlock the trunk. Crouch down, peer in. Can’t see a thing.
“Daniel,” Larry says, like I’m a disobedient spaniel. “Daniel . . . Don’t you dare interfere with my work.”
“I’m just checking,” I say, and open the trunk a little more, letting some light in.
It would be impossible for someone on the sidewalk to see in my trunk, but I block the view anyway. I squat and squint into the trunk. There’s Baldy all wrapped up, twine everywhere, metal wire reinforcing everything, white masking tape wrapped around his jaw, allowing a black sock to hang out of the small opening in front of his mouth.
And he’s snoring.
Thank God.
I straighten, look around, and shut the trunk door quickly.
Larry smiles at me. I look down at his feet. One of his socks is missing.
A yellow cab pulls up, double-parks beside my car. Kate steps out, and she’s beautiful—a trace of makeup to accentuate her eyes, that silky hair in a ponytail, her black leather jacket and tight jeans, and those boots I love.
“Kate!” I sound like a restaurant greeter, forcing the happiness. “Perfect timing.”
I glance at Larry, who has gone rigid, his body paralyzed, his mouth frozen into a smile.
“Larry’s here, honey.”
Kate looks down, her face taut, and steps past me. She stops a good distance from Larry, spins, and scans the neighborhood. “Okay, where are we doing this?”
Perfect opportunity to steer them away from Betelnut. “How about La Boulange?” I say. “Just down the street.”
Larry loosens, says, “Go for a little walk, Daniel. Give us a few hours.”
Kate glares at me.
“No.” I motion them toward La Boulange, a mellow café and bakery down the street. “Remember the agreement? I need to stay nearby.”
Kate walks ahead of us, crosses the street.
We stay on our side, watch her.
Larry says, “You need to get your own table.”
Kate reaches the other side, turns, and barks at us, “C’mon.”
Larry steps onto Union without looking, causes an Audi to screech to a halt and lay on the horn.
He doesn’t care.
I wait a second, glance at my trunk, and limp after him.
La Boulange is basically deserted. I’m in the corner nursing a grossly oversized cup of latte that looks more like a cereal bowl. Kate is at the other end watching Larry pull apart a cinnamon roll with two forks.
Poor Kate.
Her legs are crossed in that proper way—her hands resting on her lap, her back straight—as she watches him work the forks. He looks up at her a second, says something that makes her smile a little.
I mean, to put her through this.
He looks so earnest there with his forks, pulling the swirls apart, stabbing the soft dough, whispering one-off comments to Kate. And she’s forced to sit there and engage him with whatever insanity he dishes out.
My wife doesn’t deserve this.
I did this to her.
To my relief, at least she doesn’t look pissed off. There’s a slight warmth to her expression—a kind of quiet amusement, maybe. She lifts her chin, her eyes trained on the forks, and says something to Larry. He stops, glances at her, and eases a forkful of cinnamon roll toward her mouth. She pulls back, nearly laughs. Shakes her head no.
Larry shrugs, slides it into his mouth.
She glances at me, and I offer a see-this-ain’t-so-bad smile. She gives me a long, blank stare and returns to Larry.
So much for our rekindled sex life, only a few hours old.
I look at the black leather wallet resting beside my bowl-cup. Baldy’s wallet. Still haven’t opened it. Not sure why. I mean, hell, now I can find out who this guy is, maybe even who at the equity firm is paying him.
And yet, I let it sit there, unopened. Maybe I’m just too tired. Maybe I’m afraid of what I’ll learn.
C’mon, Dan. Get a grip.
I stand up, wobble to the counter, look at the clerk—this twentysomething woman with short black hair and a pierced upper lip—and ask for a pen and piece of paper. She gives me a long look before turning and disappearing into the back area.
Yeah, I know I look awful.
Kate laughs, says to Larry, “Well, I bet.”
I look over, and Larry is beaming. Kate’s body language is softening. Are they connecting? Is that possible? A well-adjusted mom and a crazy man? Connecting? At some level?
And I realize, Of course it’s possible.
“Sir.”
I jolt, turn around. It’s the clerk, reaching over the counter with scratch paper and a pen. “Here you are.”
I thank her and turn away.
“Everything okay?”
I stop, turn back. “Huh?”
She glances at Larry and Kate, comes back to me. “Is everything all right?”
“Oh yes.” I meet her eyes, smile. “I think so.”
She’s looking at Larry and Kate again. “I’ve seen you and your wife in here before.”
Embarrassment creeps in. I close my eyes a sec, smile. “Yeah, we love it here.”
Still watching Larry and Kate. “I can call my manager, if you’d like, or—”
“No, thanks. But—”
“Or ask Johnny Two Forks over there to leave.” She glances at my table on the opposite end of the café. “You know . . .”
Her concern softens me. “Thanks, but we’re fine.” I begin to shuffle back to my spot. “I’m sure it all seems weird, but believe me, everything is perfect.”
Now that really sounded wrong.
I’m lowering myself onto my seat when my mobile rings. It’s a 650 number. I stare at it, thinking maybe it’s one of the geeks. Maybe it’s another coworker calling to report that the entire Western world knows I’m a “butt man.” Hell, maybe it’s one of Baldy’s associates calling with a death threat.
It’s Calhoun. Laughing so hard it sounds like panting.
“How’d you get this number?”
“Silly Mr. Danny. You think I can’t call FlowBid, ask for Pretty Boy Jordan, and jot down the cell number on your voice mail greeting?”
I glance across the café. Larry sits back, straightens, and scratches his throat with one of his forks. Kate acts like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“What’s up, Calhoun?”
Larry continues with the fork. Kate is stoic.
“I just thought you’d like to know I saw a big beefy gentleman walking around your house. And he doesn’t look like a policeman.”
Larry puts his forks down and gazes at Kate.
Kate motions for him to finish the cinnamon roll.
“Really?”
“He looks like he could be a friend of that mean little cuss.”
“Friend? . . . Who?”
“You know, that bald little cuss I belly-flopped.”
Kate leans in, tries to stop Larry from lighting up his pipe.
“And you’re sure he’s not a cop?”
“No, those little rascals came for you earlier.”
“Who?” I snap. “Who? The cop from before?”
“He wants you to call him.” Calhoun affects a mocking tone in a low, guttural voice. “He said something about a hit-and-run in San Mateo.”
Crap.
I say nothing.
In a low baritone: “He asked me about your little car.”
“What?” My heart pounds. “What did he say?”
“Oh . . .” Calhoun emphasizes the lackadaisical tone with a long, bored sigh. “He just wanted to know if there were any big dents in your car, and if I’d seen you driving away with—how did he put it?—an older, physically fit Caucasian man with sandy-brown hair.”
I feel my latte surge. “What’d you tell him?”
“Well . . .” He giggles like a baby, milking it for all he can.
“C’mon,” I snap, earning a glance from the clerk. “What’d you tell him?”
“Well, first, I would like to talk with you about some investment opportunities. I can help you, Mr. Daniel. My friend Michael is funding another start-up, and they’re accepting buy-ins.”
“Calhoun,” I snap, “the cop. What did you tell the cop?”
“I’m going to invest in a few of these little companies, and I really think you should consider the same, Mr. Daniel. Michael swears by these kids.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “Calhoun, the cops.”
“Fine,” he snaps, exaggerating his annoyance. “Little Danny doesn’t want my investment tips. Fine.”
“Later, Calhoun. Seriously. Just tell me what you told the cops.”
“What do you think I told him, you silly little cuss? I told him nothing. I told him I saw nothing. And I said not one peep about you and Mr. Larry leaving in your little car.”
Larry produces a cloud of smoke, and Kate pushes her chair back. I glance at the counter, where the clerk offers a why-me? look.
“Thanks, Calhoun.”
The clerk is coming toward me, scowling, pointing a thumb at Larry.
“Gotta go, Cal—”
“Remember what I said, Mr. Danny. Paradigm shift. You need a paradigm shift.”
“Bye,” I say, and end the call.
The clerk leans in, motions to Larry, says, “Can you help me with this?”
A voice rumbles, “I’ll take care of it.”
It’s Rod Stone, standing behind me.
The clerk takes Rod in, wide-eyed. And can you blame her? He’s quite a sight, the kind of guy who looks amazing in old, raggedy clothes, which he’s wearing today—gray threadbare T-shirt, brown thrift-store pants, and worn-in Docs. Seeing him makes you want to try the same look, but you know those old clothes would look awful on mere mortals.
“Thank you,” she says, her eyes gleaming, and heads back to the counter.
I look up at him, squinting into the sunlight shining over his shoulder. “How’d you find us?”
“Dude, we need to take charge here.” Rod is glaring across the café. “This is ridiculous.” He glances down at me. “You’re letting that guy have a date with your wife?”
I look away, nod in concession.
“And why?”
“Well,” I say, looking up at him again. “Crazy Larry had Little Red in his garage, and High Rider got—”
“Dude.” Rod takes my shoulder, squeezes it. “Dude, you need to take charge. I know you need to play nice a few more days, but this is insane.”
“Okay,” I say, and stand up with a grimace. “You’re right.”
The clerk stares from behind the counter.
“C’mon.” Rod starts for Larry, but I stop him.
“Just one more thing.”
He turns, squints at me. It’s that look he’s always made when I disappoint him, when I fail to live my values. It’s like he’s trying with all his might to stay positive and understanding.
I get closer. “You know Baldy, the guy who kneed me in the Safeway, threw me into the Eggos, found Harry and Ben at the park?”
He nods. “Yeah, the guy who could’ve killed you, if not for Calhoun.”
I glance at the clerk, whisper, “He’s in my trunk.”
Rod stiffens and squints. “What?”
“Baldy,” I say. “Larry put him in my trunk.”
“In your trunk?” Rod says, a little too loudly. “Is he alive?”
“Shshhh,” I snap, and glance at the clerk, who’s suddenly lost her smile. “Watch it.” I stop, look around for eavesdroppers. “Of course he’s alive.” I look around again, whisper, “Larry just put him down for a nap.”
Rod sighs and shakes his head.
“Rod, he was chasing us. We crashed and I got knocked out.”
Rod examines my face, focuses on the shovel marks on my brow, the bruise on my left temple, which I must have gotten when we slammed into Baldy’s car. I can only imagine what he’s thinking.
My eyes are saying, Help me . . . Please.
Then Rod says to the clerk, “Throw me that wet rag, will you?”
The rag comes flying, and Rod turns and snatches it out of the air. “We’re taking charge, right now,” he rumbles.
“Rod,” I whisper. “Watch it!”
He turns, looks at me, stoic.
“That’s Crazy Larry,” I say.
“Is he carrying anything?”
“Buck knife in a shin holster.”
We look at the clerk, who’s watching Larry, her arms crossed over her chest, her teeth biting into her lower lip.
I follow Rod to their side of the café.
“Okay,” Rod says, his voice hard. “Date’s over.”
Larry examines him through the smoke.
“Thank you,” Kate says, and stands up to leave.
Rod takes the pipe out of Larry’s hand, covers the bowl with the rag, looks down at him. “All right, dude. Let’s go.”
Larry stares at the pipe and rag, looks around the café, leans forward, and drops his right hand. His other hand grips a fork, ready for attack.
Kate says, “Rod? Umm, who’s with the boys right now?”
Rod watches as Larry’s hand slides closer to his left shin, where the knife holster should be. “They’re still at my place,” Rod says, easing me out of the way. “Damian and his sister came over to watch them.” He stares at Larry, his jaw tightening. “And we’re going to take you back there now.”
Larry lowers his hand a little more.
I feel myself back up.
Get ready.
“Larry,” I say, “you better watch it with Rod here.”
Kate says, “How’d you find us?”
Rod waves her off, keeps his eyes on Larry.
“Larry,” I say, “I told Rod about our friend in the trunk.”
Rod steps closer, towers over him, and drops the pipe onto the table, lets it bounce. “And we’re gonna take care of that right now.”
Larry scratches at his left pant leg.
Rod says, “Where’s your restroom, miss?”
The clerk, her face pale, motions to the back hallway.
“Thanks,” he says, and turns to Kate. “Excuse us a second.”
Larry fumbles with his pant leg.
Rod reaches down, grabs his arm, and spins him off his chair. In a second, the fork sails across the café and Larry is immobilized in one of Rod’s mixed-martial-arts holds, his arms helpless, pointing in unnatural directions. Rod kicks Larry’s leg, and the buck knife clangs to the floor.
“Get that, would you?”
I obey.
Rod rushes Larry down the hallway into the restroom.
The buck knife is heavy and cold. I look around, decide to wrap it up in the dish towel, and clamp the whole thing under my right arm. I meet eyes with the clerk, who’s backing up slowly.
From the restroom, hard thuds and muffled grunts.
From behind the counter, the clerk picks up the phone, dials three numbers.
Nine-one-one. Fuck.
Kate grabs my arm, tugs. “C’mon. Let’s get the car.”
The clerk whispers into the phone. Great—squad cars will be here in minutes.
“Rod,” I holler. “Time to jet.”
The door pops open, and Larry walks out gingerly, his movements a little disjointed, his head a little wobbly, his shirt stretched and torn. Rod strolls after him, says, “I think we understand each other now.”
Sirens in the distance.
Kate is gone.
“C’mon.” I walk to the counter, drop two twenties into the tip jar, and point Rod and Larry to the street. “We’re here when they show up, they make us pop the trunk.”
Suddenly, Larry quickens the pace.
Rod strides past me, looks straight ahead, says, “Take us to The Spot.”
“The Spot?”
Sirens getting louder.
He stops, looks back, and nods.
“You sure?”
He leads Larry down the street, to my car. I follow them, the San Francisco breeze cooling my skin.
“You think that makes sense?”
“This guy in the trunk. He got a name?”
I stop short. Crap. The wallet.
I turn and run back into the café, knock over two chairs in my scramble to my table, snatch the black leather wallet, and pivot back toward the entrance.
The clerk is waiting, a baking pan in both hands.
Sirens a little closer.
“C’mon,” I plead.
Shakes her head no. “You have someone in your trunk. I heard you.”
“Move,” I snap.
Shakes her head no. “You think I can just stand there and let you get away when you have a human being in your trunk?” She raises the pan above her head, ready to whack me.
Sirens getting louder.
“It’s not like that.”
“Oh, sure. I stuff people into my trunk all the time.”
I slide Baldy’s wallet into my pocket. “C’mon.”
Shakes her head. “You I can handle.”
Probably.
I shuffle toward her, cringe as I approach.
She steps aside, yells a war cry, and whacks me hard across the face as I stumble out of the café and onto Union Street, where my Corolla skids to a stop.
It’s getting dark.
Kate’s driving, Rod is in shotgun, and Larry and I are in the backseat, the can of turpentine and the other “supplies” on the floorboard between us. We sit silent as Kate speeds us out of the city, onto 280 South, toward Daly City. “Tell me where to get off,” she says.
Rod acts surprised. “You don’t know The Spot?”
From the trunk, Baldy thumps against the backseat.
“The Spot?” Kate repeats. “Is this another high school thing?”
Rod turns back to me, releases the tightest of grins. Returns to her, says, “Take the John Daly Boulevard exit, head west, toward the ocean.”
Kate gives me an unreadable look through the rearview mirror, her jaw taut. Is she pissed that I failed to take charge, watched as Rod did what I wouldn’t do? Did someone send her the butt-lover e-mail from FlowBid? Or does she know there’s more where that came from? Can she see it on my face?
Rod looks out the window, smiles to himself. “Been a while since I’ve been to The Spot.”
I glance at Larry, who seems to be in a trance, and close my eyes.
The Spot. Late summer night, the eighties. What I’d give to go back to that moment, just for a sec.
I take a deep breath, let it out slowly, and I can almost hear Journey beating slowly on the boom box, can almost see the silhouettes around me, just as they were all those years ago, when we were thirteen and ready for high school, that night when Rod and I tagged along with my older cousin and his friends, ended up here on the bluffs over the Pacific, a girl in my arms in a very real and soft way for the first time in my life, dancing really close for the first time, a virtual stranger, the long bangs and nighttime dark shading her eyes and grin as “Feeling That Way” eases from the speakers, looking back to Rod and a girl, bumping into them and laughing, the older kids sitting on car hoods, talking softly, letting us be, the soft clank of beer bottles over easy talk about friends and surf, no one breaking our balls for being over here dancing and hugging, our cheeks sliding against each other ever so lightly, over and over, her body feeling so new and different against mine as Journey bleeds into “Anytime” and she lets me keep her close. I look over to Rod and his friend, realize they’re back with the others, leaning against my cousin’s AMC Eagle. Rod seems to be watching us a second before leaning in to his new friend in that flirtatious way, chuckling about something, and it occurs to me that I’ve never seen him happy this way, included, brought in from the cold.
I open my eyes. It’s dark out, and we’re nearly there.
Rod says, “You sure you want to do this, Katie?”
Kate’s face tightens, nods.
Rod glances back at me a sec and says to her, “Let me start with him. Okay?”
She nods, looks like she’s about to cry.
Larry stammers, strains to say, “He was mine.”
Rod turns and looks back at him, grins, amused. “Oh yeah?”
Larry says, “I need to rationalize him.”
Rationalize?
Kate says, “Is this it?”
Rod nods, points to the far end of the gravel parking lot. “Take us over there.”
When we come to a stop, Larry sits up. “He’s mine.”
“He’s not yours, Larry.” Rod hardens. “We decide.”
I rub my forehead. Shit, whatever happened to the cops? Then I think of my options, of all the dirt the geeks have on me, of that detective demanding a piece of the action.
Just thirty-six more hours, Danny.
Larry says, “He’s like a rag, engorged with the milk of data and background, and I can wring that rag in an effective, systematic manner that will extract every ounce of that milk into my chalice.” He stops, squints into space. “Our chalice.”
Rod frowns, looks at Kate. “Chalice?”
She shrugs, looks away.
Larry draws a breath. “Our chalice of knowledge, our chalice of . . .” Slowly, he exhales. “. . . intelligence.”
Rod and I glance at each other.
“I’ve already wrung the milk out of the diminutive individual who tried to follow me this morning.”
Ah, Little Red.
And then it clicks. Crazy Larry wasn’t simply “playing” with Little Red in his garage; he was “extracting” background, getting to the bottom of it all.
“You know, don’t you?” I grab Larry’s arm, squeeze. “You know why Little Red and his buddies are harassing me?”
Larry cocks his head like he’s picking up an irritating, high-pitched noise. “Not harassment,” he snaps, his voice crisp. “Forced collusion.”
“But you know everything?”
He turns to me, narrows his eyes. “I had him for hours.” His voice softens, goes extra delicate. “I wrung out every droplet.” He thinks about it, hums and whispers. “A thorough wringing. Or, to use an agricultural euphemism, a harvest.”
“Larry,” Kate snaps, “just tell us what you know.”
His voice crackles. “All you had to do was ask,” he hums, and motions his head toward the trunk. “But I wouldn’t want our new friend to hear.”
I whisper, “He’s not in cahoots with the geeks?”
Slowly shakes his heads no.
Rod rumbles, “Then what’s his deal?”
“And that is the question.” Larry’s voice drips with want. “Which is why I’d like to take him home and . . .” He hums to himself—Chopin, I think, or maybe Bach. “. . . and harvest the knowledge.”
“Nah,” Rod says, opens the door, and gets out. The cold Pacific blasts in, digs under my shirt, jolts me, and I hunch my shoulders and shiver. “Nah, we’ll take care of this right here.”
Kate retrieves my flashlight from the glove compartment and steps out, too. “I’ll start with him.”
“Let me start,” Rod says. “I need to make sure he and I . . .” He loosens his neck like he’s about to step into The Octagon, cracks his knuckles. “. . . understand each other.”
Before I follow them, I lean over to Larry and whisper, “What’s their deal?”
Larry turns to me, squints like I’m an annoying noise.
“The geeks,” I snap. “The geeks. Why do they want me to tape Fitzroy? You know? In Florida.”
Larry examines my face, his eyes settling on my chin. “People.” He opens his door, turns to get out. “It’s about people.”
I reach to grab his shoulder but think better of it, pull my hand back. “But what is it? What is it they want me to tape?”
“You don’t need to know.”
Same thing the geeks told me.
“But, Larry—”
He turns, faces me. “I told you.” His eyes go dark, seem to sink deep into his sockets. “I told you I don’t like big money.”
“But—”
“Listen to the little people, and do as they say.”
I nod to the trunk. “But what about this guy?”
Larry touches my hand softly. “You tell your cage fighter to retreat, and I will take him to my place and harvest the intelligence.”
“No more garage time, Larry.”
I step out into the frigid cold. The fog has come in, dimming the moonlight and distant parking lot lamps, seeping under our collars, shooting down our backs, chilling us. I look around and listen—nothing but the cold wind, the crashing of the waves, and the fog making the night even darker. I hug myself and hobble to Kate and Rod behind the car, grimacing with each step as bolts of pain shoot through my crotch and stomach.
Rod looks at Kate, then me. “I need to know.”
“What?”
He eases closer. “Before I pop that trunk, I need to know how badly you need this info.”
Kate says, “Rod, it’s important. We hold on another day and a half, we can walk away forever.”
Rod says, “A lot of coin? Life-changing coin?”
“For us, yes.” I look around, step closer. “If I screw up these last thirty-six hours, Kate and I lose everything. So I just need to play along a couple more days.”
Rod nods, looks away.
“And this guy?” I nod to the trunk. “It’s like he wants to stop me. And if he succeeds, we lose it all.”
Rod whispers, “We’re talking about a lot of money?”
Kate says, “Rod, we last a couple more days, we can live the way you’ve always wanted us to live.”
Rod sways to the trunk, looks back at us. “You’re cool if this has to get ugly?”
“Rod, this guy was following my boys.”
He’s lingering over the trunk lock, fingering through my key chain. Kate steps closer, clutches the unlit flashlight.
Larry joins us with the can of turpentine.
Rod gets the key in, prepares to pop the trunk, motions to the flashlight in Kate’s hand. “Get that ready.”
Larry lifts the turpentine, steps forward.
“Hey,” Rod says, putting a hand out. “Cool it.”
Larry stops.
Rod whispers, “Me first,” and pops the trunk.
Door eases up in silence. Nothing but the scent of turpentine.
Kate flips the light on, shines it into the trunk. Baldy is still curled into his forced fetal position, constrained by the metal wire, the sock still hanging out of the slit where his mouth should be. His eyes are wild, his chest rising and falling. He looks exhausted and terrified, but his vitals seem fine. I sigh in relief.
Rod snarls, reaches in with both hands, rips the tape off Baldy’s face, and pulls out the sock. Baldy heaves and spits, sucks in big breaths, his eyes still wide in fear. He convulses once, then moans and shudders.
Rod takes the flashlight from Kate and puts it under his chin.
“You see this face?”
Baldy looks, his eyes in terror, and nods.
“Is this the face of someone who plays games?”
Baldy shakes his head no.
Rod plows his elbow into the trunk, getting Baldy in the mouth. Brings it up again, drops it again, into Baldy’s nose.
“You fucked with the wrong people, asshole.”
Baldy cries no.
Rod puts the light on his face again, smiles. “I’ll fucking maim you, brother. I’ll maim you for life.”
Baldy sputters. “No, it’s just— Let’s try to—”
Rod drives his right fist into Baldy’s throat.
Baldy stiffens, chokes, spasms.
“You think you’re some kinda tough guy?” Rod’s jaw juts out. “You think you scare us?”
Kate creeps forward, touches Rod’s shoulder. He eases her back.
Finally, Baldy regains his breath, starts to whimper. Never would have believed it if I hadn’t seen it myself. Baldy the bulldog, the guy who decked me at Safeway just yesterday, is now tied up and whimpering in my trunk.
“It doesn’t have to . . .” He gasps. “. . . end this way. I have money.”
“Money?” Rod lowers his head into the trunk, yells, “You think I want money?”
Baldy winces, preparing for impact.
“Give me his wallet, Danny.”
I dig into my front pocket, hand it over. Rod opens it, pulls out the driver’s license, eases it under the light, leans in and squints. “Anthony Altazaro.” He pauses, looks into the trunk. “Of Brisbane.” He fans through Baldy’s credit cards and IDs. “This is perfect, Anthony. Or can I call you Tony?”
Silence.
“Regardless, this is everything I need to destroy your life, and those of the ones you love. Assuming you’re capable of love.” He stands there, thinking about it, jutting his jaw out again. “Assuming you get through this.”
Baldy spits more cotton.
“You want to live?”
Baldy nods.
“Then tell me why you’re harassing my friend and his family. And if you lie, I will find out. I have all your info. And I will—God as my witness—fucking kill you.”
Long silence. “Not here.” He sighs. “Not like this. I want guarant—”
Rod slams the trunk lid down, hollers at it. “It’s about to get much worse, Anthony.” He waves Larry over. “Your turn, Larry.” Then, to the trunk: “You remember Larry from earlier, don’t you, Anthony?”
A distress call from the trunk.
Rod mumbles to Larry, “Do your thing.”
Larry twists off the cap, pours the turpentine into the knife hole, then stops and waits.
From inside the trunk: “Hey. Hey!”
Larry pours more in.
Coughing. “Okay, okay.”
Rod stops him, pops the trunk. Baldy gasps for fresh air, spasms again.
Rod grabs Larry, pulls him to the maw of the trunk, shines the light above his face, illuminating his beard and nose, leaving his eyes in shadow. Baldy glances up at him, screams.
“So you do remember Larry?”
Larry says, “I need my pliers.”
A whimper.
“Larry would like to take you back to his place and—what was that word?—wring . . .”
Larry coos, “Or harvest.”
“. . . the details out of you.”
Baldy squirms.
“Point is,” Rod says, “I don’t think he’s gentle like me.”
Larry hums and crackles. “I’ll take him.”
“Or we can pick you up as you are—all tied and restrained, compliments of Larry here—and drop you off at the pool, so to speak.” He nods to the black expanse before us, cups his hand to his ear, listening to the waves. “It’s your choice.”
Baldy coughs, gasps, “Give me a second.”
Rod slams the trunk shut, nods to Larry.
More turpentine. More shouts from the trunk.
Larry hums another classical melody—Bach?—as he continues to pour.
Kate says, “Pop the trunk.”
“But—”
“Just pop the fucking trunk.”
The trunk door rises again. Kate snatches the flashlight from Rod and climbs into the trunk, squats over Baldy. “Listen, you little fuck,” she growls. “You beat up my husband, you come after my boys, and now you think you can follow us?”
He looks away, cowers.
“Either you start singing, or we drag your pathetic face down to the water.” She climbs out of the trunk. “Starting now.”
Baldy rasps, “It’s not that simple.”
“Oh yes, it is,” she snaps, and turns to us. “Guys, let’s take him for a dip.”
The roar of the surf drowns out his screams.
As Baldy rolls around in the ankle-deep water, pleading for his life, Larry and Rod stand over him arguing.
“Let me harvest,” Larry snaps. “In my lab.”
“He’s not going to your garage, Larry. Too much evidence.”
Baldy yelps and tries to rock himself to dry sand. Rod puts a foot out, pushes him back into the froth.
“If I get him to my lab, I can harvest the intelligence. Every last droplet.”
Rod turns, squats down to Baldy, tries to make eye contact with him. “Plus, we don’t have the time.”
Baldy coughs on icy seawater.
“C’mon, c’mon.” Kate paces, squinting into the fog, looking for witnesses. “Let’s do this already.”
“Kate’s right,” Rod says. “It’s time to roll.”
He rolls Baldy farther into the water. Baldy screams.
Kate takes my arm, pulls me back. Concern in her eyes.
“Don’t worry,” I whisper.
Rod rolls him deeper, until a wave crashes over them, submerging Baldy. When the wave recedes, Baldy is rocking back and forth, heaving and gasping for air. Giant breaths.
“Oh,” Rod says, backing up. “Here comes another one.”
The wave breaks, sending a wall of white water toward Baldy.
Rod sings, “Incoming.”
The water submerges Baldy.
This time, for longer.
The water recedes again.
More spasms and choking and gasping.
Rod squats, rolls him toward the water, looks up. “Oh Lord. This one’s a big boy.”
Rod backpedals.
The wave engulfs Baldy, pulls him out a little more.
I can’t see him. Holy shit, I can’t see him.
I pull off my shoes and socks, bolt into the water, frantic, my crotch exploding.
“Don’t worry,” Rod says, pointing to a blotch of black in the foam. “He’s right there.”
The wave recedes.
Baldy is rocking violently, trying to roll away from the water. More heaving and spasms.
“Please,” he chokes. “Please.”
Rod walks over, squats down, “You feel like talking now, Tony?”
“Yes, please,” he cries. “Please.”
Rod motions for me to help roll him to higher ground.
“He feels chatty now, Danny.”
Baldy cries.
Larry emerges from the fog. “I get him after you.”
Rod says, “Just make sure no one comes over here.”
Larry disappears into the fog.
We roll Baldy so his face is up. The bone-chilling water has drenched him. With the sharp gusts blasting us, he’s shivering uncontrollably, his whole body vibrating, his teeth chattering like a cartoon. “Puh-puh-puh . . . p-p-p-p-p-puh-lease.”
Rod squats, gets close, asks, “Why are you harassing my friend?”
Kate arrives, squats behind me.
“It-it-it-it’s a j-j-j-job.”
“No shit, Beatrice. What was your assignment?”
“Just . . . j-j-j-just scare him a l-l-l’il. R-r-r-rough him up.”
“And following his kids to a park, playing with them. What’s that all about?”
“Wa-wa-wa-wa-was g-g-g-going to have th-th-the-the b-b-big kid pass along a m-m-message.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I’m sup-pup-pup-pup-posed to scare ’im into stayin’ he-he-he-here.”
“Here?”
“The k-k-k-k-kid wa-wa-wa-was supposed to t-t-t-t-tell him to n-n-not go to T-T-T . . . Tampa.”
Kate and I glance at each other.
I say, “You’re not working with those IT geeks from FlowBid, are you?”
Shakes his head. “They’re th-th-the p-p-p-problem.”
Kate says, “Why shouldn’t he go to Tampa?”
“N-n-n-no idea.”
We look at each other. I believe him.
Kate says, “Who’s calling your shots at Stanislau?”
Baldy stammers.
“Does this have to do with Knowland, Hill, and Davis?”
Baldy shudders, nods yes. “All I-I-I kn-kn-know is, he’s not sup-p-p-posed to go to Tamp-p-p-pa.”
Rod says, “You’re withholding information.” He tugs on Baldy, adds, “Time to take another dip.”
Baldy screams. “No . . . no.”
Rod tugs him toward the ocean.
“No-no-no-no-n-n-n-no.”
“Who gave you this assignment? Someone at Stanislau, or someone from that other place?”
Baldy stammers. “The other place, th-th-the other p-p-place.”
“Knowland, Hill, and Davis?”
Nods yes.
“Tell me his name right now, or you’re going for a swim.”
He whimpers. “It’s comp-comp-comp-complicated.”
Rod stands up, starts rolling him back to the surf.
“Ser-seriously.”
Rod rolls him onto the wet sand. “Bet you wish you brought your nose clips, huh?”
Baldy whimpers, “F-f-fine. Fine. It’s David D-D-D-Duncan.”
All I can see is Rod’s silhouette. “David Duncan? With Knowland, Hill, and Davis?”
He makes a yes-whimper.
“Your client?”
Another yes-whimper.
Larry steps out of the fog. “Now I get him.”
Rod stands up, stretches. “Danny, help me get him back into the trunk.”
Baldy cries.
Larry steps toward Rod, thinks better of it, steps back.
Rod straightens, sighs. “Tony was a good boy, Larry. He decided to talk. I think it’s our responsibility to take him home, remove the wire that’s been digging into his flesh, and tuck him in bed.”
Baldy makes a noise that sounds like Yes, yes, please, please.
“But of course,” Rod says, “he will need to give us the home address of this David Duncan.”